


A Private Affair

by Pangea



Series: The Associates [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Erik Being Cocky, M/M, Yachts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 02:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is not Erik's Bond Girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Private Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikeracity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [A Private Affair 私人事务](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979571) by [Glacier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacier/pseuds/Glacier)



> For fry, who has survived a long week of midterms. Happy Spring Break!
> 
> Based on [this gif](http://cakeis.tumblr.com/post/73378489266/line-o) by **Cakeis** \- thanks for taking my request! :')

_You’re done at 5 tonight._

The text blinks across the screen of his phone innocently, but Charles stares at it and fumes for a full minute before slipping the phone back into his pocket, text unanswered. The sheer audacity, he thinks venomously as he shifts a few paper stacks around on his desk just to keep his hands busy, or otherwise he thinks he might throw his phone out the window entirely.

Never mind that he was already planning on finishing up by 5 this evening, with no desire to stay at his office any later than he absolutely has to on a Friday night after a particularly long, hellish week. Never mind that he wouldn't have been adverse to making plans, never mind that he’s not busy tonight in the slightest.

It’s the way the text is worded, precisely and on purpose, after nearly two weeks of radio silence. It’s not a question, or even a request. It’s an order.

Charles waits till the end of his morning office hours before he shoots off a quick response. _I have a stack of essays to grade_ , he types, just to be difficult. It’s not entirely untrue, as he does have a pile of them on the corner of his desk, but he has the entirety of next week to get that done while all his students are off on spring break. _Won’t be done till 6._

 He hits send and tucks his phone away again, before grabbing his satchel and heading down the corridor to the lecture hall to teach his next class. Let Erik chew on that.

A few of his students come up to ask him questions on his lecture from the previous day, so Charles’ mood evens out, always happy to teach and help bright young minds, and by the time class starts and he begins his lecture, the text is mostly forgotten.

He’s halfway through his Punnett squares slide when his phone begins to buzz, vibrating with an incoming call that fortunately only one or two people in the very front row notice, their attention wavering for half a moment before flickering back up to Charles’ powerpoint slide again. Charles keeps talking without a hitch, though he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t slightly disappointed that there’s no second, short buzz to indicate voicemail once the call ends.

Three powerpoint slides later his phone starts buzzing again ominously, right against his leg while he paces slowly back and forth in front of the projector screen. He lets it ring through again, making his point about alleles, and this time there’s a short pause after the call ends before he feels one more short buzz—voicemail.

Anticipation curls, hot and molten, in his belly. It’s so tempting to give his class a three minute break, and duck outside to listen to the message that now sits in his inbox. But anticipation and waiting are half of the game that he and Erik play, and Charles is nothing if not a master over his own self control. He can wait.

His main source of motivation for actually waiting is that it forces Erik to wait too, but Erik doesn’t need to know what.

Charles soldiers on through the rest of his lesson, wrapping up his lecture with just a minute to spare before the class period is over. Most of his students are out the door almost as soon as he’s wished them a happy spring break, but a few linger with questions that Charles answers without a single trace of impatience, even though that wondering what the voicemail contains is at the forefront of his mind despite himself.

After what seems like an age, Charles is alone in his office again. He settles himself in his comfortable leather armchair behind his desk and pulls his phone out, tapping the button for voicemail and trying not to hold his breath as he holds the device up to his ear.

“ _Charles_ ,” Erik’s steely voice comes through the speaker warningly, a low growl that makes the telepath’s name sound as if it is being wrenched out of the mafia don’s mouth through gritted teeth. Then Erik hangs up, leaving Charles with a sharp click before an automated voice asks him if he wants to replay the message or delete it.

Charles hits the end button, setting his phone down on his desk. Erik is pissed. Not at him, which is well and fine because Erik would have another thing coming if he thinks intimidation will work on Charles, but certainly at _someone_.

He very nearly rolls his eyes. While it _is_ tempting to reach out with his mind through the city and find Erik to tap in for a moment to see what exactly is happening right now, Charles also has far more important things to worry about, like assembling his notes for the next lecture he has to give. Erik is more than capable of keeping himself in check, and anyone foolish enough to invoke the most dangerous man in the city’s ire usually deserves the outcome.

Caught up with work and the two more classes he has left in the day to teach, he never does get around to actually responding to Erik’s message. Erik never calls or texts again as the rest of the morning slips away and fades into the afternoon, so either he’s busy too or assumes that Charles got the message loud and clear.

At 5:01 exactly, Charles shuts down his computer and slings his bag over his shoulder after sweeping the stack of essays inside, locking his office door and making his way out of the building. The early evening air is crisp, a light breeze making the tall campus trees rustle as Charles heads across campus, taking his time. He’s not in a hurry. Not at all.

He reaches the edge of campus without incident, where student housing gives way to regular city apartment blocks, and he’s walking down the sidewalk towards the nearest subway entrance when a sleek, black limousine glides up alongside the curb, engine purring softly as it comes to a halt beside him. Charles comes to a stop as well, huffing out a sigh. At least this time they stayed off campus, if only barely.

The door of the limo opens and Azazel unfolds himself from the back seat, straightening fluidly with a razor sharp grin as he gives Charles a quick and blatant once-over. His coal black suit looks handmade, tailored specifically for him—which, of course, all of his suits are, in regards to his long, whiplike tail that currently wraps around the car door handle—and even though Charles meets the Russian’s gaze unflinchingly, he can’t help but feel slightly frumpy in comparison, standing alone on the sidewalk dressed in khaki slacks and a worn blue sweater, tattered satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Hello Charles,” Azazel says, his grin turning downright salacious, “I’ve been sent to collect you. I suggest you get in the car.” He holds the door open wide and gestures inside.

“Shouldn’t second-in-commands have better things to be doing than personally picking up the night’s entertainment?” Charles asks dryly.

“Ah, are you unhappy to see me?” Azazel puts a hand to his chest, making a show of looking wounded. “It is never a chore to escort you, _myshka_.”

“Call me that again, and you’ll spend the evening thinking you’re one,” Charles tells him, but with as much dignity as he can muster he climbs into the back of the limo, sliding sideways onto the leather seat. He hopes it’s been thoroughly cleaned since the last time he was in this ostentatious car.

He tries and fails not to blush just thinking about it.

Azazel is still laughing at Charles’ threat, so fortunately he doesn’t notice. He slams the car door shut and through the tinted window Charles watches as he walks up the side of the car to slide into the front passenger seat. The partition between him and the driver is already up so he can’t see who’s driving, but no doubt it’s Janos. Erik was all too pleased with the driver after last time, so Janos has probably been put on retainer for life.

The car pulls away from the curb, so Charles drops his satchel down by his feet and settles into the seat, resigning himself to wherever they’re taking him. Azazel was in a pleasant enough mood, so hopefully now whatever had Erik spitting nails earlier has been smoothed over, and Charles won’t have to deal with a temper tantrum.

He’s alone in the back, which is interesting because Azazel never passes up an opportunity to exchange snide remarks with him—or hit on him when Erik isn't around—but on a second glance through the cab Charles notices the black garment bag hanging up against the opposite door. Ah. Of course.

“You bloody well know I hate changing in the car,” Charles grumbles aloud, because he wouldn't put it past Erik to have listening devices or even a camera installed somewhere. As the limo takes a turn, he slides across the seat closer to the garment bag, reaching up to pull the zipper down.

Inside is a suit so white that it feels too bright on Charles’ eyes at first in the dimly-lit cab of the limo. Charles doesn’t need to look and check to know that the price tag is well over what any normal person would spend on a white dinner jacket and slacks, and neither does he have to look to know that it fits him perfectly. Erik knows _all_ of his measurements.

Charles considers balking, and zipping the garment bag closed again and staying in what Erik likes to refer to as his absent-minded professor wear, but then he considers how sharply Azazel was dressed. Like Erik, Azazel likes his tailored suits, but even Charles can tell the difference between an everyday-wear suit and a suit meant for something like a gala.

“So that’s why you’re irritable,” Charles muses, pulling lightly on one of the jacket’s sleeves and letting the silky material slip through his fingers with a whisper of fabric. “You’re doing business.”

He gets to changing with a sigh, kicking off his shoes and sliding down on the seat somewhat so he can shrug out of his khakis. It is at this point he realizes with chagrin that today he’s chosen navy blue boxers, which won’t do at all underneath snowy white trousers. Not very hopeful, he leans over to dig around in the bottom of the garment bag but all he finds are polished black dress shoes, each with a sock tucked inside.

Charles would accuse Erik of doing this on purpose, but it’s not as if Erik has any idea what kind of underwear Charles chooses at random to wear on a daily basis.

With some level of difficulty thanks to the gently rocking seat as the limo continues its drive through the city, Charles manages to get himself dressed, buttoning up the equally white dress shirt and tucking it into his trousers without garnering a single wrinkle, and then slipping the dinner jacket on top, leaving the single button undone for now while he’s still sitting down. Last is the silky black bowtie left draped around the neck of the hanger, which Charles slips around his neck and deftly ties without looking, straightening it by using his reflection in the nearest window.

All dressed up per silent order—he rolls his eyes again—Charles sits back in the seat again, folding his arms. Judging by the view out the window they’re headed towards the docks at the marina, so at least whatever little party Erik wants him at is a private affair. He spends the rest of the ride folding up his other clothes and shoving them into his satchel so that Erik’s minions don’t have to do it for him.

Erik’s yacht has an entire dock to itself, her sleek black hull reflecting the calm marina waters as the limo pulls up. Charles sits in the back and waits as Azazel and Janos climb out of the front, because as much as Charles is more than capable of letting himself out of the car, there’s certain ritual and unspoken rules about these kind of things, and one can never fully know who’s watching.

Janos walks around the front and down the side of the car to open the door for him, and Azazel offers him a hand out, which Charles accepts, placing his hand in Azazel’s and allowing the red-skinned mutant to pull him gently up out of the limo.

“Well?” Charles asks, raising an eyebrow as he straightens his jacket. “Think this is what he wants?”

Azazel’s eyes gleam wickedly. “I’d fuck you if I knew he wouldn’t rip off my balls and nail them to the nearest wall, _da_?”

Charles snorts, doing up his jacket button and brushing his trousers off one last time. “That is nothing compared to what _I_ would do to you,” he drawls, accepting Azazel’s offered arm. He gives Janos a short nod and then allows himself to be steered down the dock, towards the wide, carpeted gangway leading up to the yacht’s top deck.

Azazel chuckles, his mind emitting amusement. “That I know. But  wonder if he knows how much scarier you are than he is.”

“He’s well aware,” Charles says matter-of-factly, having made himself quite clear on numerous occasions before. He tips Azazel a smile, because he genuinely likes Erik’s right hand man, vulgar humor and all. “That’s why he’s so nice to me.”

Azazel laughs again, throwing his head back as they reach the top of the gangway and step down onto the wood panels of the yacht’s deck. Alex is there as security to greet them, ducking his head once to Azazel and trying not to stare openly at Charles.

“Good to see you, Alex,” Charles greets him, perfunctorily smoothing out the worst of Alex’s jittery nerves. He always tells Erik that he impresses far too much fear into his lackeys, but unsurprisingly the man never listens.

“Hi Ch—Dr. Xavier,” Alex answers, shooting a quick glance at Azazel, who smirks.

“I've told you before, just Charles.” Charles slides his arm out of Azazel’s light grip to shake Alex’s hand.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Alex replies neutrally, but he gives a slight smile.

“I’m going ahead,” Azazel says, flicking a brief hand signal to Alex before leveling Charles with one last wide smile. “I believe you know what to do.” He disappears with a loud crack, black cloud of smoke quickly fading in his wake.

“Good luck,” Alex says fervently after a beat of silence, “there are lots of sharks in the water tonight.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Charles says to him, faintly amused, “but they hardly scare me.” _I’m seeing the one with the most teeth._

 Tonight the wide deck is empty, the cushy chairs and couches sitting silently in the dark. Charles navigates his way over to the sliding glass door that leads into a large lounge, brightly lit and where most of the minds on the boat are gathered. He slides the door open, moving silently on well-oiled runners, and steps inside, out of the dark, cool night and into warmth and light.

He immediately feels the weight of everyone’s attention zooming in on him even as the conversations in the room hardly pause, so Charles keeps his gait casual as he approaches the gathering. It’s as if he’s stepped into the penthouse suite of a five-star hotel, full of lavish furniture and decorations that scream wealth and importance—though in a subtle, supposedly classy manner. Everyone in the room is dressed as if they’re about to meet the President, which makes Charles glad he’d gone along with Erik’s dress code after all, trying not to laugh as he imagines himself sauntering in still wearing his sweater.

He _is_ the only one in white, however, and suddenly his purpose becomes very, very clear.

Everyone is mostly gathered near the full-size and fully stocked bar that takes up the entire back wall of the room, either standing around with drinks in hand or settled in the sturdy chairs scattered around in clumps for the same purpose. It doesn’t take Charles long to spot Erik, the criminal syndicate leader’s mind standing out like a beacon and far outshining the rest in Charles’ telepathic view, enthroned in a wide-backed chair with burgundy cushions, leaned back with a deceptively lazy posture as he listens to whatever the man on his left is saying. His suit is blacker than the night, with blood red lapels that glint brightly against his white collared dress shirt, a white bowtie knotted neatly at his throat.

Charles slides through the small crowd and walks right up to him, stepping through the middle of the group of chairs in Erik’s particular cluster and coming to a stop directly in front of him. Erik looks up at him with half-lidded eyes, a wall of lust slamming into Charles and nearly leaving him breathless for a moment.

Aware of everyone in the vicinity still watching, Charles keeps himself steady and in control, allowing only a small smile to slip across his face. Erik’s long legs are sprawled open, so Charles doesn't hesitate to move forward, bracing his hands on the chair’s carved armrests and slotting one knee on the edge of the chair’s seat in between Erik’s legs, nearly brushing his crotch, and then leans down to press a kiss against the side of Erik’s mouth.

_I am not_ , he says icily, _your Bond Girl._

He feels Erik’s smirk, and when Charles moves to pull back he finds himself unable to do so on account of Erik’s hand, which presses down lightly but pointedly on his back, holding him in place. _I’m not Bond_ , Erik blasts into his mind, too loud as always but before Charles can complain, Erik turns his head just enough to capture his lips in a full kiss.

It’s nothing short of filthy, Erik moving right in and taking exactly what he wants with the same level of entitlement that he wears like a cloak, which always makes Charles want to resist at first, keeping his mouth closed for half a moment before Erik’s tongue finally slips in past his lips, which Charles parts with a soft sigh, reciprocating. He imagines what he must look like, balanced precariously on one leg and one knee, leaned forward and hovering over Erik while the mob boss holds him carelessly in place.

_Perfect_ , Erik thinks loudly, when Charles pushes the thought at him tinged with disgruntlement. He draws back to let Charles have some air, unsmiling but still radiating satisfaction and pleasure. Their faces are still inches apart, and Charles takes a moment to regain his bearings, trying not to openly pant for breath. It’s unfair how Erik can do this to him.

“Where’s my drink,” is all he says when he’s certain that his voice will be steady, pushing back against Erik’s hand, making it clear that he doesn't intend to be pressed down until he’s sprawled across Erik’s chest.

Erik gives a low chuckle, sliding his hand down off Charles’ back but maintaining a grip on Charles’ wrist. He maneuvers Charles around his ridiculously long legs and then tugs him down sideways into his lap before Charles can think to escape, and Charles has to throw an arm around Erik’s neck to keep from falling backwards against the armrest.

_Really?_ he demands waspishly, even while outwardly he tries to maintain as much poise as possible as he shifts slightly to make himself as comfortable as he can on Erik’s lap and not be in danger of sliding right off, because the only thing more embarrassing than this would be to end up on the ground.

A waiter appears at Erik’s elbow, holding a tray with a single crystal glass of dark amber liquid. Erik lifts the glass without taking his eyes off of Charles, his other arm coming up to wrap around Charles’ back to give him extra support, hand resting possessively on Charles’ hip. He takes a sip of the drink and then offers the glass to Charles. “It’s good to see you.”

“Darling,” Charles says without inflection, and then takes the drink and knocks it back in one go. It burns as it goes down, and Charles relishes how it goes straight to his head, filling him with a sort of loose-and-floaty sensation that makes his whole body go limp and relaxed against Erik’s, tingling pleasantly. “Bring another one,” he advises the server, setting the glass down with a clink, and the man scurries off to obey.

_How many of them are thinking about you_ , Erik asks, driving the words right into Charles’ skull as he takes a drink out of his own glass that rests on a low side table to one side of the chair.

_How many do you think_ , Charles answers shortly. Now that their little spectacle is basically over, most people’s attentions have returned to conversation, though he can feel a few minds sliding across him like raindrops on glass. As it stands, four of them are vividly imagining fucking him, one of them featuring his red lips while the other three are focused on his ass, which was put on display nicely when Erik had Charles bending over him, though at least as far as Charles can tell his white trousers hadn’t been see-through. He blocks them out, shutting their thoughts away as easily as closing a door.

_They can look_ , Erik says, thumb tracing wide circles around Charles’ hipbone, _but they can’t touch._

 Charles makes sure to roll his eyes when Erik glances down at him, but then the server reappears with his second drink and Charles accepts the glass, taking a much smaller sip of the expensive liquor as he settles fully into place. The party has gotten into full swing, conversations growing louder and more spirited as alcohol continues to flow and loosens both tongues and inhibitions. Charles spots Azazel schmoozing with two serious-looking blokes he knows for a fact are from a rival syndicate, both standing straight and tense at the edge of the bar and clearly uncomfortable while Azazel is loose and relaxed, tail flipping back and forth.

Erik picks up his previous conversation with the man to his left again but Charles tunes them out, simply content with the time being to take long, slow sips of his drink and observe the rest of the party, letting their thoughts wash over him like the changing tide outside. After spending a long week surrounded by the tired and stressed thoughts of students who had nothing but spring break on their minds, it’s almost relieving, in a way, to be surrounded by a completely different type of people.

“I assumed you wouldn’t come till later,” Erik murmurs after his conversation has finished, the man moving off and leaving them in a quiet pocket of space.

“I considered it,” Charles answers lightly, shifting a little in Erik’s lap to keep one of his legs from falling asleep. “Your mood from earlier has drastically improved.”

“There were...complications...in the middle of a deal,” Erik says calmly. His hand has moved slightly to rest on Charles’ lower back now, elbow propped lazily on the armrest as he draws absent patterns against Charles’ white jacket. “It was handled. The deal is closed. This is my little way of celebrating.”

“If you’re fishing for congratulations, you’re going to have to try harder than that,” Charles informs him, though underneath that he presses a small, mental impression of a kiss against Erik’s mind. He blames the alcohol for making him so affectionate.

“Prickly only to remind me that you can be,” Erik teases, lifting his free hand to take Charles’ empty glass out of his hands and setting it down on the side table before pulling Charles down into a real kiss, nipping lightly at Charles’ bottom lip when they part again.

To hide the flush in his cheeks, which he also decides to blame on the alcohol, Charles presses his face into the side of Erik’s neck, inhaling deeply. Erik always smells divine, a mix of pricey cologne that’s never too strong, richly masculine and one Charles has secretly tried himself but it never smelled the same on him, not without the same scent that is inherently Erik’s alone beneath it, brimming with strength and power. He starts to mouth at Erik’s throat, placing a trail of kisses down his jawline that end just above his jacket’s neckline, curling his fingers into the short hairs at the back of his neck.

Erik makes a low rumbling sound that vibrates out from his chest, sliding a hand down between Charles’ legs to massage his crotch, squeezing him gently. Charles rolls his hips up into the sensation, slow and unhurried, his cock filling between his legs in Erik’s long-fingered grip, arousal bubbling up beneath his skin like magma beneath a tectonic plate, slowly but gradually building in heat and pressure.

His head feels heavy, hazy with alcohol and arousal, and it’s so easy to splay bonelessly in Erik’s lap while Erik fondles him, sticky sweat making his trousers and jacket stick to his skin. He closes his mind off to everyone else, because no doubt at least some of them are starting to notice, and he keeps his face pressed in close to Erik’s neck, sucking a small mark into his skin as his hips keep up their lazy undulating motion. It makes his ass grind down against Erik’s crotch, Erik’s cock growing hot and hard beneath him.

“The man by the window is planning on killing you tonight,” Charles breathes into Erik’s ear when a strong wave of thoughts suddenly batters unintentionally against his shields. “He’s hoping to catch you whenever you decide to step out for some fresh air, though now he’s hoping that you’ll bring me along so he can have me as a victory fuck. Erik.” He pulls back abruptly, meeting Erik’s gaze unblinkingly. _If I have to spend another minute being oggled by one more person like I am nothing but your whore—_

 “You are so much more to me than that,” Erik answers him aloud, the words brushing right against Charles’ lips. His thoughts pulse darkly, lightning flashes of cold fury against black storm clouds. _Kindly inform Azazel about our friend. He’ll handle it._ “Stand up.”

_What, you’re not going to?_ Charles asks, because it’s unlike Erik to pass up such a perfect opportunity to reinforce his merciless reputation. He does his best to climb up out of Erik’s lap gracefully while still half-hard, and Erik keeps one hand on his back to steady him, even when Charles sways slightly as soon as he’s fully upright with a bit of a headrush.

Erik rises as well, right up into Charles’ personal space so that there’s barely an inch between them. “I have something more important to do right now,” he says, all predatory intent that he presses down on Charles heavily with purpose, and Charles shudders.

He steers Charles through the crowd and Charles lets him, half of his attention focused on sending a small package of thought to Azazel about the man casually following them, while the other half he uses to brush away the attentions of anyone else so that they passed virtually unnoticed to the other side of the room, passing by the bar to where a tightly spiralling staircase leads upwards into the ceiling.

Azazel lifts his tail once in acknowledgement as they pass him, and Erik pushes Charles towards the stairs as he stops for a quiet word with his right hand man. Charles starts up them without looking back, a little clumsily at first before his body gets used to moving around again, steps growing steadily surer. It’s not a very tall staircase, so it doesn’t take him very long to draw close to the ceiling, but before he can wonder what to do next he feels Erik absently flip open a hatch at the top with his power, opening a yawning hole in the ceiling that Charles supposes he’s meant to climb through.

The stairs take him right up through the hole, the sound of the party below cutting almost entirely save for the noise that filters through the open hatch. On Valentine’s Day Erik had taken him by the docks briefly to show Charles his newly acquired yacht, and while they’d done a brief tour and Charles had noted the staircase to seemingly nowhere then, Erik hadn’t offered up the fact that it led up to a master bedroom suite.

Lights flicker on as Charles emerges up into the room, stepping onto thick carpet. There’s a king-sized bed against one wall, but Charles pays it no mind as he walks over to the heavy curtains covering the opposite wall, finding their break and slipping them a little ways apart to peer out. The windows face forward, looking out across the yacht’s bow, and giving him an admittedly beautiful urban view of the city, all lit up for the night and glowing brightly against the dark sky.

He turns around again in time to see Erik climbing up the last of the stairs into the room. He stays where he is, watching as Erik steps aside from the hole in the floor, flicking the hatch shut with his powers, and locking it with a loud crunch of metal. It should probably scare him, Charles thinks, to be locked in a room with a man like Erik Lehnsherr, who is all hard, sharp lines as he prowls forward slowly, but he hadn’t been lying to Alex in the slightest. He isn’t afraid.

“We suspected someone might try something tonight, after the close of the deal,” Erik says, breaking the tension-laden silence that has fallen between them. He comes to a stop when he’s still a few feet away from Charles, like a large jungle cat in the middle of stalking its prey that has paused to consider its next move. “That’s why I had you come.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that right away,” Charles answers, folding his arms, “I could’ve scanned everyone in that room and pointed him out in less than a minute.”

“Because I also wanted to see you,” Erik admits, taking another step forward. Charles remains still, neither encouraging him to come closer, but still not telling him to fuck off, either. “I haven’t seen you since Valentine’s, which is my fault. I’ve been busy. But I’ve missed you.”

“Keep talking,” Charles tells him, lifting an eyebrow.

Erik huffs out a breath, amused. “Do you also want me to apologize for putting you on display?”

“No,” Charles answers matter-of-factly, “because I know you won’t mean it.”

“I’ll mean it if you want me to,” Erik murmurs, moving closer still. “But I like people knowing that you’re mine. I like making people look at what they can’t have because it’s already mine.”

“Yours,” Charles muses. Erik’s directly in front of him now, so close that he can feel every intake and release of breath, but he still doesn’t touch Charles, waiting. Charles tilts his head back, studying Erik’s face. “And what exactly am I to you, Erik?”

Erik smiles, slow and heated, revealing a long row of white teeth. His hands come up to rest lightly on Charles’ elbows, holding on with just his fingertips. “What will you _allow_ yourself to be to me, Charles?”

“Good answer,” Charles whispers, letting his arms drop down to his sides and stepping forward to kiss Erik, leaning up on his toes to slot their mouths together in a wet, velvety soft glide.

Erik growls, low and pleased, sliding his arms around Charles’ back to pull Charles flush against his body, so that they’re pressed together from groin to chest. He can feel Erik’s long, hot cock against his hip, moaning a little into Erik’s mouth as Erik rocks forward to grind against him. He wraps both his arms around the back of Erik’s neck and the crime boss lifts him up entirely, hooking his hands beneath Charles’ thighs and guiding his legs to wrap around his waist. It changes the angle of their kiss and only serves to deepen it, Charles clinging on tightly as Erik turns around and heads away from the curtains.

Charles hears Erik’s intent but still yelps in surprise when he’s dropped, his back hitting the mattress after a short fall, and the way he bounces up and down a little ruins his indignant look entirely as Erik merely smirks. Charles toes off his shoes and then scoots backwards across the soft duvet, and Erik kneels down on the mattress and follows, crawling over him so that Charles’ body always remains beneath his own.

When he’s far enough up the bed he pulls Erik down on top of him, letting Erik’s weight settle down and pin him to the mattress, tugging Erik’s head down for another kiss. Erik is happy to comply, bracketing Charles with his arms and legs and rubbing their crotches together, a back and forth drag that soon has Charles squirming, hips jerking up in search of more friction and whimpering when Erik grinds back down against him, sending a white-hot jolt of pleasure racing up his spine.

“We’re going to ruin our suits,” Charles points out breathlessly when Erik moves down to press open-mouthed kisses against his throat, making obscene sounds against Charles’ skin.

“We don’t want that,” Erik answers, grinning right against Charles’ jugular.

They get themselves undressed in a flurry of clothes, and despite Charles’ initial concern he finds he couldn’t care less as one by one each article of clothing is merely dropped off the side of the bed, abandoned and forgotten. Their arousal pools between them like two rushing rivers into a lake, blocking out the already distant minds below them, until all Charles is aware of is himself and Erik, who sits over him with a positively hungry look in his eyes that makes Charles shiver.

He’s just about to open his mouth and say—something, he thinks, but then his brain short circuits when Erik bends down to suck one of Charles’ nipples into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the bud until Charles is arching up into the sensation, legs clamping down like a vise on Erik’s hips where Erik’s body stands in the way of Charles closing his legs completely. Erik doesn’t stop, sucking on him maddeningly even when Charles buries his fingers in his short hair, though whether he means to pull Erik off or hold him there in place, Charles isn’t sure.

_Sensitive spot_ , Erik thinks smugly, and Charles grits his teeth.

“We’re not doing this again until you learn how to properly project,” he says, dimly aware of a plastic cap popping open as Erik shifts between his legs, sitting up far enough to spread Charles wide. “You’re doing little better than shouting right in my—” he cuts off with a moan as one slick-cooled finger traces around the rim of his hole, hips jerking up again preemptively while his cock smears a large drop of precome against his stomach.

“You’re sensitive in general tonight,” Erik observes, slipping his finger in slowly, sliding it back and forth once or twice to allow Charles to adjust to the length.

“Forgive me,” Charles says as snottily as he can muster while Erik’s finger inches closer to his prostate, his muscles trembling in anticipation, “I haven’t been laid in two weeks, so maybe I—”

Erik pushes another finger slicked with lube into Charles’ ass beside the first and Charles’ legs quiver, back arching as Erik rubs against the little bundle of nerves that sends hot sparks of pleasure dancing up his spine. Erik’s free hand strokes one of Charles’ thighs slowly, and his eyes remain intently on Charles’ face as the telepath twists beneath him, fucking himself on Erik’s fingers shamelessly. Charles moans when Erik scissors his fingers, feeling himself being stretched open, his cock so hard now that it aches, liberally leaking and smearing precome all over himself.

Erik’s mind drapes over his own, bearing down on Charles mentally just as he is physically. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises, pulling his fingers back out of Charles’ ass with a slow drag that has Charles’ toes curling, empty hole clenching down on nothing.

“I don’t want to be taken care of,” Charles snaps, just about at his wit’s end because today has been one long tease and he’s tired of waiting and tired of playing games, “I want to be _fucked_.”

Erik’s thoughts grow razor sharp and honed, something dark and primal flickering through his eyes. Without warning he flips Charles over, dragging him up onto his hands and knees. Charles makes a low sound in the back of his throat as he feels Erik push his way back in between his legs, forcing them to splay obscenely wide to accommodate his girth.

The head of his cock catches against the rim of Charles’ hole and Charles lurches forward, bracing his hands against the bedspread even while Erik presses himself against Charles, chest-to-back, slowly pushing his cock forward. One muscled arm wraps around Charles’ torso, callused hand rubbing up and down his chest and belly, tweaking at his nipples as Erik pushes into him, the burning stretch in Charles’ ass only deepening as he takes Erik’s cock from behind, head tipping back to rest on Erik’s shoulder directly behind his own.

“God, Erik,” Charles gasps, panting up at the ceiling and unable to rock forward or backward, his half-kneeling position leaving him with no leverage at all—all he can do is stay where he is, legs spread wide and trembling arms braced forward and take Erik in.

Erik’s balls brush against the bottom of Charles’ ass, pressed in as far as he can go. He stays like that for a small eternity, holding Charles impaled all the way on his cock while he mouths at the side of Charles neck again, all tongue and teeth and Charles can feel his own cock hanging hard and heavy and dripping between his legs, and he’s so full that he can barely stand it. His ass stretches and strains around Erik’s cock but he needs more, he needs—

“Move,” he grits out, squirming as much as he can in Erik’s iron-tight grip, “god, Erik, move—”

Erik pulls back and then snaps his hips forward and Charles sees stars when the thick head of Erik’s cock brushes across his prostate, a strangled moan wrenching itself out past his lips. Erik does it again and again, fucking into him and nailing that sweet spot inside Charles every time, like the well-oiled German machine that he is.

Charles can feel every muscle in his lower belly tightening, pressure building as each of Erik’s relentless forward thrusts sends shockwaves of pleasure reverberating up through his entire body, whiting out everything else in the entire world until all Charles knows is Erik’s cock fucking him hard and fast, each stroke seeming to reach deeper and deeper so that Charles can almost taste it in his throat.

Erik’s other hand moves down between Charles’ legs and fists around Charles’ cock, providing a strong, firm grip for Charles to thrust into with every jerk of Erik’s hips that rocks them both forward. Charles’ body feels as if he has a livewire running through him, caught quaking between the dual sensations of Erik’s hand on his cock and Erik’s cock in his ass.

“You’re mine, Charles,” Erik murmurs in his ear, teeth closing lightly on his lobe for a moment before he purrs, “and I’m yours.”

Charles’ orgasm rips through him, shaking apart in Erik’s hold with a cry, hole clenching down on Erik’s cock as he shoots off into Erik’s hand. His mind catches on Erik’s and sends him crashing over the edge as well, hot and sticky come filling Charles’ ass as the crime boss buries himself deeply inside Charles one last time. Charles’ arms give out and he collapses, landing face first on the duvet and Erik follows, lowering himself down on top of Charles and all but crushing him to the bed. For the time being it feels nice to have Erik’s warm, solid body covering his, Erik’s cock softening in his ass.

“Is that what you wanted,” Erik says eventually, his gravelly voice right in Charles’ ear making him shiver again as his whole body vibrates.

Charles can’t exactly find words yet, still too blissed out to move or speak, and basking in the warm waves of Erik’s deep-rooted affection. It’s always worth the wait and putting up with all of Erik’s moods, from arrogant entitlement to cold-blooded bastard, to get to this point. He carefully singles out his own affection for Erik and lets it broadcast, twining their emotions around each other and creating a small feedback loop that makes it perfectly clear how they both feel.

Erik presses one last kiss to the back of Charles’ neck, making goosebumps break out along Charles’ arms before he sits up, gently pulling his cock out. Charles groans wordlessly into the duvet when a small trickle of come leaks out of his ass and down the back of his thigh.

“I have to go make sure things wrap up downstairs,” Erik says, stroking one hand down Charles’ back, “but you stay here. Sleep, _liebling_.”

Already halfway to dozing, Charles merely presses another mental kiss gently against Erik’s mind, and doesn’t protest when he feels himself being carefully wiped down and tucked under the covers, resting on his belly with his face nestled into a soft down pillow.

He must truly sink down into real sleep, because he doesn’t remember hearing Erik redressing or heading back downstairs, nor is he even aware of Erik’s return sometime later until he feels a long, hard body slip under the sheets next to his own, an arm wrapping around him to tug him close and lips pressing a soft kiss against his temple before he drifts off again, feeling as if he’s being gently rocked to sleep.

When he wakes he’s alone again, Erik’s side of the bed already cool, though his mind isn’t too far away. He sits up and stretches, enjoying the sore twinge in his lower back and ass, and the way several vertebrae in his back crack loudly. He feels as if he’s had a long, deep sleep, feeling fully rested and recharged for what feels like the first time in weeks.

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and stands up, toes sinking down into the soft, thick carpet. His clothes from the night before are nowhere to be seen, but Charles pads unashamedly naked over to the thick curtains that still cover the window and parting them just a little, not wanting to flash anyone while giving himself enough of a gap to peer outside.

It turns out that this matters very little, because instead of a view of the marina and the city beyond, Charles is met with the sight of miles and miles of sparkling, deep blue ocean.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "A Private Affair"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615395) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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